


looking like his boyfriend

by nymeriahale



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 02:25:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymeriahale/pseuds/nymeriahale
Summary: Rafa doesn't want to look like Roger's boyfriend - or does he? And does Roger want him to?~~~Roger opens up a tweet from a British journalist reading:‘Nadal’s response after several questions on what he admires about Federer: “I don’t want to look as if I’m going to be his boyfriend.”’Roger can feel his eyebrows drawing down, cocks his head slightly as he goes on to his main twitter feed. He feels... well, he’ll settled on bemused for now. As he reads through more, sees more of the tone and context and even finds a video - which he decides not to watch in his car full of team - he feels no better. He had expected to, had expected more details to settle the odd first pulse of rejection he’d felt, but it hadn’t. Roger understands the situation Rafa was put in, can fully see how he’d decided to say what he had and how it had all been a friendly joke. But he still doesn’t like it.





	looking like his boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

> No aspersions are intended or truths are claimed about the real life humans of Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal through this fictional work. But it is all their fault that I'm writing it.
> 
> Context:
> 
> Rafa won his day session quaterfinal match at the US Open to set up a semi final against the winner of Del Potro/Federer. In the presser afterwards he was asked about Roger for approximately the millionth time, specifically what he admired most about Roger on and off the court. He replied 'I don't wanna look like I'm gonna be his boyfriend, no?' ([full video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAzXyImHGNw)). A few hours later in his night session match Federer lost in four.

Roger slumps back in his seat in the tournament car. He sits still as security close the door, sits still as they pull out of Flushing Meadows. Eventually he pulls out his phone, still ignoring the quiet chatter of his team. There’s a string of commiseration texts and messages, but Roger ignores them all in favour of opening the ones from Rafa, who probably should have been sleeping.

 **Rafa**  
23:57  
:(  <3

 **Rafa**  
00:01  
I gonna sleep, but if you want you please come to mine when you finished.

Roger smiles a little. He should probably refuse, let Rafa get his sleep, but then - Rafa’s got a day of rest tomorrow, and already chose to stay up to watch the match. Him coming in won’t make that much difference - especially if he can manage to get in without waking Rafa. It’s selfish, maybe. But it’s what he wants, and Rafa wouldn’t have messaged him if he wasn’t sure, so it’s what Rafa wants too, ill advised as it may be.

Years ago they used to barely see each other during Grand Slams, or even the last few days of lesser tournaments before they were scheduled to meet. As their rankings waxed and waned with injury and age they got used to spending more time in each others’ company whenever they could, whenever they were both actually on tour and at the same event. As they had started playing each other more frequently during their joint rise they had just never got back into the habit of avoiding each other, something Roger certainly can’t be sad about. Roger doesn’t know if Rafa would have invited him back to his hotel room even if he’d won the match, but he thinks he might have, and he kind of loves it. He loves that they’ve got to the stage where spending time in each others’ company isn’t unusual, is just their default. In the past that time was a rare stolen treat, precious - and it’s no less treasured for all its increased frequency. But now it’s just them, nothing to shake their worlds up and certainly nothing that could shake them from getting into a competitive mode. He loves that they’ve had the chance to play each other enough to know that.

Roger messages Rafa back to let him know he’ll be coming, even though he knows he’ll be asleep by now. He scrolls through a few of his other messages for lack of anything better to do, intrigued when one is just a link and a couple of crying laughing emojis, timed before his match. He clicks through, opens up a tweet from a British journalist:

Roger can feel his eyebrows drawing down, cocks his head slightly as he goes on to his main twitter feed. He feels... well, he’ll settled on bemused for now. As he reads through more, sees more of the tone and context and even finds a video - which he decides not to watch in his car full of team - he feels no better. He had expected to, had expected more details to settle the odd first pulse of rejection he’d felt, but it hadn’t. Roger understands the situation Rafa was put in, can fully see how he’d decided to say what he had and how it had all been a friendly joke. But he still doesn’t like it.

Roger’s still frowningly prodding at his own reaction when they pull up at the hotel he and Rafa are both staying at. He takes his bags with a nod of thanks, taking advantage of the space his team are giving him to brood over the match. He probably should be thinking about that, in fact - there’s no shortage of things to think on - but this is a surprising pain, something he can’t stop dwelling on.

“I’m going to Rafa’s,” he tells the guys when they enter the lift. “Could someone-” he gestures, pulling at the strap of his bag.

“Of course,” Seve takes his bags readily.

“He doesn’t want to sleep?” Ivan asks, raising an eyebrow.

“He’s already asleep,” Roger tells him, refusing to feel bad or rise to the defensive. “I’m not going to wake him - hopefully,” he smiles.

Ivan nods in acceptance, and they share farewells at the lift, heading in opposite directions. Roger’s eyes catch on a CCTV camera as he walks down the corridor, reaching in his pocket for his key to Rafa’s suite. He scans it quickly, letting himself in and closing the door gently. There’s a lamp still on in the main room, but no one’s around. Roger smiles at the thought that it might have been left on for him - they’re not so settled into this funny kind of domesticity that it doesn’t still thrill him every time.

Roger pads across the lounge to Rafa’s room, slipping through the door as quietly as possible. Rafa is asleep and doesn’t stir in the time it takes Roger to pop in and out of the en suite bathroom, where he strips down to his underwear to sleep. Roger is still a little wired from the match and takes a moment just to stand in the doorway to the en suite when he’s done, trying to settle down enough to sleep and not disturb Rafa fidgeting. Roger looks at Rafa as he breathes deep, small smile spreading as his eyes trace over that familiar face, relaxed in sleep, so entirely different to his intense focus on court, his exuberant joy in life. The remaining traces of irritation from the match and Rafa’s words in press melt away for the moment. How did he get so lucky?

Roger walks slowly across to the bed, moving carefully as he gets in his usual side.

“Rogi?” Rafa slurs, almost incoherent.

“It’s me,” Roger confirms, inwardly cursing himself for disturbing Rafa. “Go back to sleep, it’s fine.”

“Wanna say -” Rafa frowns, blinking his eyes a little more open. “T’estimo. Is all.” He nods, apparently happy to have gotten his point across as his eyes immediately fall shut again.

Rafa is only still for a moment before suddenly shifting, moving decisively towards Roger and lining their bodies up from shoulder to hip, throwing a leg across Roger’s own and burying his head into the crook of Roger’s neck.

“Ich lieb dich,” Roger replies, heart caught in his throat. He curls a little more into Rafa where he can, rubbing his cheek gently across Rafa’s hair as his breathing slips back into the true deep breaths of sleep. “I love you,” he repeats.

~~~

It’s far too early when Roger wakes up a few short hours later to a loud rapping on Rafa’s bedroom door.

“Practice in two hours!” Toni calls in the Mallorqui Roger is finally coming to understand, seemingly not for the first time as Rafa has already rolled onto his back next to Roger and is rubbing blearily at his eyes.

“Si, si,” Rafa replies. “Quiet please.”

“Breakfast!” Toni simply barks in response.

“He’s not being any more gentle on you now it’s your last Slam together, huh?” Roger observes.

“Rogi, I sorry he woke you,” Rafa apologises, mobile face creasing in concern.

“It’s okay,” Roger waves it off, though as he moves to sit upright he can feel the heaviness in his limbs and dull ache in his head that means he could really have done with at least twice as much sleep. That was just the decision he made, coming to Rafa’s. “I wanted to see you properly, anyway.”

Rafa smiles broadly as he joins Roger in sitting up and abandoning the idea of more sleep, before falling back into seriousness. “I am sorry about last night. You played well, but Juan...”

“He was on fire,” Roger accepts ruefully. “There were a few guys I could’ve lost to last night. I’m just sorry I couldn’t make it to our date,” he jokes.

“Si, the press not gonna be impressed,” Rafa teases back.

“Well, all the better for you,” Roger replies, going on to elaborate when Rafa cocks his head questioningly. “I thought you didn’t want to look like my boyfriend - no chance of that if we’re not playing.”

It’s meant to be joking, to continue the light tone Roger himself was trying to create, but it falls heavy between them, Roger’s attempted sarcasm reading a lot more like bitterness.

Roger lets himself fall back down onto the pillows as Rafa frowns at him. “I’m sorry,” he says, before Rafa can even respond. “I meant to joke, not...” he waves a hand in the air, drops his arm down over his face. “It’s fine, I get what you were doing, I’m sorry.” Hiding behind his arm probably doesn’t make his attempt to brush the issue off very convincing, but then he’s not sure he wants it to be.

“No,” Rafa says, voice careful as Roger can hear him moving closer, crossing his legs, knee landing on Roger’s chest. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to-” he cuts himself off, and Roger imagines him waving a hand through the air, brow creased in frustration at his lack of language. He doesn’t move his arm.

“I thought afterwards was too far, no? I worried about saying too much, I know we no wanna ‘come out’ -” and Roger can hear the quotation marks around that learned phrase “- I just afraid to say too much and they know.”

Roger grunts in acknowledgement. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here after all. He’s too tired to have this conversation well. “Maybe I like you complimenting me ‘too much’,” he tries, removing his arm from his face and smiling slightly apologetically up at Rafa.

“I can do this!” Rafa grins, his usual boundless enthusiasm restored. “Best in the world, of course, we start with this,” he begins with mock seriousness, beginning to count on his fingers. “Most handsome, of course, best hair. Charming, generous, so good in bed-”

“Are you going to tell the media that?” Roger laughs, rolling in towards Rafa’s legs. He imagines it now, what Rafa actually could have told them. It’s ridiculous, of course, eases the remaining sting the words Rafa did choose, but Roger can’t say he hates the idea, actually. Realistically, of course, it’s too far, too much, but there’s an odd heat in the pit of his belly as he imagines it.

“I can do this,” Rafa proclaims. “If you want, I do this.”

It’s joking, but also... not? Roger pushes himself back to upright, crossing his own legs and resting his elbows on them as he leans in towards Rafa.

“You would?” he asks, intent.

“I don’t care,” Rafa replies, jaw set, letting Roger absorb the truth and resolve written in every line of his face.

“I don’t want that,” Roger admits. “I don’t want you to sit in some press conference and declare that, even half of it.” He feels almost disappointed in himself at the realisation - how can he justify his upset at being denied if he doesn't want to be claimed?

“I know,” Rafa tells him, face relaxing into a smile. He leans forward to kiss Roger on the cheek. “But I don’t care.”

“You really don’t care?” Roger asks, a little baffled. “It doesn’t matter to you?” He can’t understand how - he may not have thought about or realised it in such direct terms before, but their behaviour in the public eye has been plaguing his mind all year.

“Is not this,” Rafa shakes his head. “For sure we are together whatever, si, so is not most important, but-” Rafa pauses, frowning thoughtfully as he organises his thoughts into English. “I happy with what you are happy with, no? What they know - I don’t mind, we been through a lot, it not gonna break us. First was whole secret, to everyone - was too much,” Rafa shakes his head, and Roger frowns too remembering how entirely they’d been closeted in the beginning, and for how long. It _had_ been too much, too much fear and residual shame.

“This now, is okay,” Rafa nods his head from side to side, pulling an ambiguous face. “Our teams know, families, few players, friends - important people, no? So is okay. But I would be okay if more people know. We still careful, a bit. A bit less, every month, but still a bit. I don’t mind if we stop being careful.” Rafa pauses, then nods, as though happy with what he’s conveyed. He doesn’t scrutinise Roger’s face for a response the way Roger thinks he would have to, just seems content to sit with the truth of what he’s stated and wait for Roger’s reaction.

“Okay,” is all Roger can manage at first. “I didn’t know you wanted...,” he trails off as Rafa shakes his head.

“Is not want, necessarily, or -” Rafa inclines his head to the side “- maybe is a bit, okay, but - we should decide. If we gonna stop being careful - we are, have been - then we should decide, not just let it happen.”

“You’re right,” Roger realises. Whatever they do, they need to choose. They have been less and less careful for years now - Roger had noticed the security camera in the hall, there had been a time seeing that meant he wouldn’t have entered the room. Now he’d barely think twice about leaving Rafa’s rooms with him, even knowing about it. And Wimbledon had possibly been worse, walking to each other’s houses all the time, even using the cars once or twice, always risking people seeing them. But he honestly hadn’t thought about it. It had just been part of the two of them spending more time together, a natural progression. He can’t say he wants to reverse it. And knowing Rafa does want them to be more open, as much as he’s downplaying it - that little heat in the pit of his belly burns bright again. It makes him want it too, Roger can at least admit that to himself. Now he’s allowed the possibility to cross his mind he likes it, likes the idea of people knowing that he is Rafa’s and Rafa is his, that they matter to each other beyond the box of tennis - as big a box as that is in both their lives - that when the two of them are talked about together there’s another aspect, binding them close beyond the call of tennis history. Sitting declaring it in a press conference, no, that doesn’t feel right - but people knowing? Maybe that does.

That’s not all it would be, of course. It wouldn’t just make people aware of another aspect of their story, it would add to it. A new angle of attention, of responsibility, of interest and speculation. It would be a global news story, more than their shared resurgence has been. They’d probably need to set boundaries when it became clear, decide what they were telling and what they were keeping personal. They might even need to have that press conference - simply ‘being less careful’ couldn’t possibly work as a long lasting strategy. But nonetheless...

“We should tell our agents,” Roger says.

“Is not a decision,” Rafa points out, but he’s starting to grin.

Roger rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay - we should keep being less careful - nothing more, nothing big, just carrying on - and we should face reality and tell our agents, you’re right. It wouldn’t be fair to them if we get caught because we’re not trying to be careful and they’re surprised. Especially if now we’re... trying to not try?”

Rafa looks at him consideringly. “It will do,” he pronounces, leaning in to kiss Roger properly this time. It’s not really a decision, maybe, still kind of hovering on a metaphorical fence - but it is how Roger feels, it is what he’s comfortable with. As he sinks into the kiss he thinks once again of how lucky he is, to have found a man who can be patient and comfortable along with him in this high paced environment.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a quick afternoon of writing to get the fic idea out of my head. Instead, we have this, which hopefully stands alone but could also considered a prequel to what is now planned to essentially be Laver Cup fic, with a coming out focus. I'm unsure yet as to whether it will be continued ~~promptly~~ ~~at all~~ as a series or chapters.
> 
> Come yell about the Laver Cup with me on [tumblr](http://dropshotgenius.tumblr.com)!


End file.
